


The Affair

by MoonliteMooney



Category: Company - Sondheim/Furth
Genre: 2018 revival, AU, F/F, Genderbend, Patti LuPone - Freeform, Rosalie Craig - Freeform, adultery/affair, company west end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 00:44:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17012295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoonliteMooney/pseuds/MoonliteMooney
Summary: Bobbie and Joanne have a tumultuous affair.





	1. Prologue

“There’s my place,” Joanne offers, her eyes fixated on Bobbie’s over their plates. The food is untouched. Neither of them had agreed to meet up because they had been particularly hungry - for food, at least. Bobbie wonders if her own face is a mirror of Joanne’s.

The place is nice enough, but when Joanne had called her earlier she had picked it because it was close by, and they were less likely to see anyone from their rather large and widely spread friend group. And it mattered even less where they were when Bobbie had laid her eyes on Joanne for the first time in two months - two _months_ of avoiding each other because they had almost fucked in a restroom - and the entire place started to blur in a beige watercolor wash, with Joanne’s huge brown eyes the sole focal point. Things had been… _awkward;_ she had gone in for a hug while Joanne stuck out a bejeweled hand for a good shake. Yikes. And she’d tried to shake her hand and Joanne had shrugged open her arms for a hug. Then both turned and sat down at the table Bobbie had snagged with arms pulled to their sides like little Nutcracker soldiers. Joanne had gotten right to the point; Bobbie’s cheeks were still red from the sincerest apology coming from the most caustic bitch she’s ever met. “I shouldn’t have kissed you in the first place, but I definitely shouldn’t have dropped you like trash and ran away with my tail tucked between my legs.” She’d rolled her eyes. At _herself_.

She quickly realizes if she inhales long enough, hard enough, she can catch the faint notes of Joanne’s perfume in an air of otherwise indistinguishable scents. She spends most of the time breathing like she means it.

“Larry works… I think it would be best to see each other.” Joanne’s confidence falters, and Bobbie nods eagerly, and reaches across the table to rest her hand on Joanne’s napkin. Because… _Yes_ . If the last two months have shown her anything, it’s that it _is_ best.

“When is best? And what time? How long?” She asks and watches Joanne breathe like she means it.

The following Monday Bobbie shows up at Joanne and Larry’s townhouse, the time and date prearranged; she’s never been an especially punctual person, but she thinks her parents would be proud of her work ethic as she mounts the steps to the front door at 2 pm, on the dot. To the second. The almost itchy sensation of seeing one another again after the weirdest, longest two months of Bobbie’s life, has carried itself over the weekend; and today she gets to see her _again_ ; Bobbie’s palms are sweaty, her eyes are bright with anticipation. She already knows it’s going to be good.

She lets herself in with the key Joanne had slid across the table between two plates of salad that were more for appearance’s sake than anything else. It warms in her hand, like she’s holding the sun. She shakes with excitement. Joanne is in the foyer by the time she closes the door behind her, and pulls her in for a kiss that makes her head spin.

She feels like she’s grabbed on to something that’s speeding, uncontrollably forward, and for once she has no urge to let go.

And they do it again the next Monday. And again the next Monday after that. Every Monday straight down the line.

 

* * *

 

 


	2. Interlude

It’s six months later, in the midst of a spring that clings to the previous winter in the same way Bobbie does.

Bobbie pays her fee for the cab ride to the Upper West Side at exactly 2 in the afternoon, (tips more than usual,) thanks the driver, scrambles to collect her jacket and upturned bag all while half in half out of the taxi. Had the driver known Bobbie – like, say, how _Larry_ knows Bobbie – it’d be fairly obvious to him that Bobbie was laboring through some kind of internal dilemma. That her usual trademarked Coolness was amiss, that in its place was the guilt of a woman on trial.

“Thank you very much,” she repeats aimlessly and closes the backseat door to stand at her full height on the sidewalk. Before her are the steps leading to Larry and Joanne’s townhouse. She sighs, the kind that fills her uncomfortably like a hot air balloon and when exhaled, more anxiety than it relieves in pours. _‘Like a puppy in the rain.’_ The image springs to her mind unwarranted. Most of her thoughts are in this fashion nowadays.

It’s a wispy day in New York city, and the sky is exemplifying perfect weather - no puppies and absolutely no rain. The bushes lining the street are blossoming, in fact; she does not take notice; her nose does not smell it, but they waft an inimitable fragrance. Bobbie is blind to their flourishing.

Bobbie knows she shouldn't linger out here, for a variety of reasons. There’s the neighbors, who, if they haven’t already started to notice a strange woman popping in and out like clockwork, never when Larry is home, _will_ . Sooner rather than later, Bobbie is sure. And then there’s the time crunch, of course. Because when you get down to the nitty-gritty of a bonafide love-affair, the hand-full of work hours after lunch and before dinner is often _just barely enough_ to contain their weekly, voracious explorations of one another. (And she really hates to spoil even one second of it with doubts, or hesitation, when they’ve gone so much farther than either of them expected to.) And of course there’s the potential threat of being dragged within an inch of her life by Joanne if she ever saw Bobbie loitering like a dunce under her rain-gutters.

Nevertheless, looking up to Larry and Joanne’s townhouse never fails to paralyze her. The house always seems to recognize an intruder.

Bobbie routinely considers, however belatedly, backing out. To say, _Enough is Enough. It’s not worth it._ _Good friends do NOT sleep with their friend’s wife._ Bobbie affirms this with a nod of her head. Not that it changes anything. It’s what her mother would say, anyway. Or some existential, abstract commercial on late-night television. It’s even probably healthy, in a… roundabout way, to have a moment before the precipice where you can wash your hands clean and walk away like it never happened, just to _have_ that _moment_. It certainly makes Bobbie feel better, knowing full well she will never, ever walk away from Joanne, and their Mondays, and their kisses, and Joanne’s tongue, and her soft noises…

…It’s enough.

 _Enough_. The word almost sounds silly - it’s what she would have said when she was twenty and had fallen into the lap of one of her elusive college professors. She had been making mockeries of marriages back then as well. The difference is, though, that she is less selfish now, less self-centered, and more sentimental, perhaps. And Mr. Kravitz’s faceless spouse was nothing compared to Larry.

Nowadays she feels practically a thousand years older than the girl who’d jumped at the chance, all those months ago, to drunkenly neck Joanne in a dirty club bathroom and indulge her subconscious’ nagging thoughts - that Joanne would be a great lay, that her lips were softer than satin, that being with a woman in that way would be a fun, exciting, one-time slight.

Her subconscious had not warned her of the size-difference, however, and she lifts a hand to her lips, grinning helplessly at the memory of their first kiss.

Bobbie has had it proven to her over and over that she actually lacks the capacity to get her full of this horrible betrayal. For this fault of her’s, she suffers under a mortified conscience, all the while knowing feeling sorry for what you couldn’t control was no way to live at all.

So that’s why… She’ll have no hand in righting her own wrongs. She hopes for it to come to no other foreseeable end, except, maybe, death. And it could very well kill her. The guilt, that is, not Larry, obviously. He’d never hurt a fly, he’d probably - if he came home from work early one day and burst in and saw - he’d…Well. God willing, Bobbie will live a long and happy and secret Joanne-filled life without ever having to know what caliber of mortal pain would the discovery of an affair elicit. The term _blindsided_ comes to mind.

What she’s doing with Jo has got to be wrong. Completely, infallibly, without contest or discussion, it has got to be the worst thing she has ever done. And so to have the _choice_ to call the whole thing off is - has to be - enough. Because she won’t, and neither, she’s positive, will Joanne.

It is a resignation, at worst. At best, it’s love.

Bobbie dances away from the thought. She shakes her head. She squeezes her eyes shut and pinches the bridge of her nose, exhales something much like exasperation. If _anything_ , quitting would only prove Joanne right - and she’d rather get fucked until she can’t even see straight than let Jo win one of their more petty arguments.

She wonders what Joanne would say if she saw her out here, staring down the Edwardian-style townhouse every week, painstakingly assessing every window, every block of cement... _Looking in at the party_ , so to speak.

She goes for a respectable attempt at drumming up some courage. Jo had thrown this particular party just for her and has said on many occasions that what she hates the most is people who just “ _observe_.”

OK!!

Bobbie bounds up the steps to the front door and lets herself in with her own copy of the key. It burns in her hand, like a cross onto a vampire.

Thoroughly more resolved than when squaring off with the window panes outside, Bobbie unzips her coat and unceremoniously dumps her bag beside a potted aspidistra. Joanne’s place was completely quiet; tidy but with no maids nearby to question why she’s standing in the foyer; if she strains her neck she can just see Jo’s exquisite fur coat thrown over the arm of the settee in the next room - her cheeks scald as she relives a particularly cherished memory of that fur coat getting yanked underneath them as Joanne finger-banged her on the floor in front of the couch, they both couldn’t wait, and the couch had been too small to fit both of them. Joanne is nowhere to be found.

No Larry in sight either, which is something she always thanks God for.

Bobbie checks her watch, breaking out into a sweat as she wonders if she’s early, or late, or - _2:14 pm._ Oh.

_“Our bedroom is on the second floor. If I’m not there, waiting,” Joanne’s eyes had flashed, “then check one of the offices down the hall.”_

Right…

Bobbie creeps up the staircase, her heels in hand.

 

* * *

 

 _“When are we going to make it?”_ She starts it. The thrill colors her cheeks, and she tilts her head to watch. She skims her pout, grazes her cheekbones, collects her outfit with a very slow, obvious gaze. Up and down. From her shoes to the crown of her head.

Verdict: everything in-between is perfect.

Bobbie sets down her drink; she almost laughs at the suddenly alert face looking back at her, wide-eyed and frozen, as Bobbie tries to find the joke in her gaze. It’s a good thing she doesn’t laugh. Because then she wouldn’t _know_.

Just as this girl’s always caused her to feel, she’s astonished, and is lit from within, as Bobbie’s quizzical grin turns into a smirk. She looks like the cat that’s got the cream. She looks beautiful. “What’s wrong with now?” Bobbie intones, sounding daringly sober; Joanne’s stomach flops.

They end up in the ladies’ restroom, the one on the opposite end of the building as the bathroom Larry’s gone to. By some magical intervention - Joanne knows it's not from her own sensibility - they share their first kiss only after they’re clustered into one of the three empty stalls. The moment Bobbie’s soft lips meet her own the top of her head blows off, sparks fly, and an entirely different ache than the one she’s felt all _Goddamn_ night roils in her stomach. She ignores it, obviously.

Bobbie is much taller and has to lean down to her mouth while she struggles to tip-toe in heels. As if it just wouldn’t do for this to be easy, at any point, Bobbie’s hitting her limbs on the walls with a building frequency, as the desire between them gets hotter and hotter - on one occasion she even manages to bump her forehead against the stall door. And while she laughs each time - and what a gorgeous laugh - Joanne has long since started to growl in irritation: _too many interruptions! Not enough time!_

Joanne grabs her face and lays a deep, needy kiss on the poor girl. She even has some sense of mind to rub her sore head in the middle of it.

She swears she hears herself babble, “Bobbie,” against her mouth.

Bobbie gasps as they pull themselves apart; its uncertain whether it was from the lack of oxygen or the way Jo’s body was heaving against her. Joanne utters a bereft ‘ _nngh!_ ’ at the loss of delicious contact.

Her throat works as she swallows, looking strangely contrite. “Why did you… stop…?”

“I - wanted to look at you, sorry,“ Bobbie adds breathlessly. She looks far from sorry. Joanne quirks an eyebrow and actually makes winding her arms around Bobbie’s neck seem like an act of suspicion.

“Are you _serious_?” Joanne scowls with pink cheeks. Her voice has churned out more of its usual haughtiness this time. And if it weren’t for the heart pounding so hard against her that she could feel it through all the layers of dress, Bobbie would have bought into it. “The most juvenile –”

Her eyes sparkle as she runs her fingers through Joanne’s perfectly styled coiffure. And grins as she musses it.

“– _statement_ … _I’ve_ … _oh_ ,” Joanne’s eyes flutter; Bobbie cups her cheek; she gives up. Then it happens - this isn't the first time she’s felt it but now she cannot fight it, or smother it, or do anything but be seized by it - Joanne’s blinded by her, completely bowled over. She wants her, and knows she wants her in an entirely different way than this - but _this_ is good too; _better_ , even; because it is obtainable where other things are not, and ready for picking, and _Bobbie_ wanted this too - She shucks her massive fur coat off her shoulders and seconds later it lands on the ground, and Joanne couldn’t care less, then tries to fuse their bodies together.

Bobbie leads another kiss, still touching Joanne’s face. Their mouths have a good go at working away all coherent thought.

“You’re _trembling_ ,” Bobbie whispers when they part next; she sounds surprised; Joanne shivers in delight. Fingers gently brush aside her collar. Bobbie narrowly avoids Joanne’s kiss, ghosting her lips upon her jawline. She nuzzles and gives an experimental lick behind her ear that very nearly drops her. Joanne moans, whimpers, her body tensing up with exquisite anticipation as Bobbie goes further, and further, pushing her past sanity. Heat sweeps up and down her body, and settles with a hard pulse between her legs.

Has Bobbie forgotten everything about the world outside of their cramped, unhygienic heaven, the way she has? Her clit is throbbing. Her heart is beating so manically it _hurts_. It’s the worst thing she’s ever had to endure.

Bobbie trails some more feather-light touches down the elegant slope of her throat, effectively burning her alive. “ _Jo_ … _you feel so…”_ Joanne’s head falls back and hits the stall door with a thud. Oh, she’ll endure. Another whimper escapes her and Bobbie moans into her flushed skin - like - _like_ -

 

* * *

 

 _“Jo?”_ Her voice is a stage-whisper. Bobbie stands outside Joanne and Larry’s bedroom and knocks timidly. She’s been in the house for all of three minutes without seeing anyone and she’s beginning to feel like some kind of hesitant intruder.

After seconds of more silence, Bobbie turns the knob and peeks in. The bed is empty. The room is as well. But there is a pile of dirty clothes near the dresser, and a pair of discarded heels. And the shower is running en suite.

_“When are we going to make it?”_

Bobbie allows herself in and slowly lowers her own shoes to sit beside Joanne’s black slingbacks. She glimpses at the cigarette packet on the bureau as she passes by like a ghost. She’s wrapped up in the feeling she’s bombarded with every time she has a free moment inside this room: the kind of feeling that stalls her, that tears. _You don’t belong here._ Her lip snags in her teeth from nervous energy.

What they’re doing to Larry _is_ terrible. They are doing terrible things because they are terrible people. That’s a fact. And she can’t even _stop_ herself. How sick is that? Every time they fuck it throws a huge fuck-you to Larry and Joanne's marriage, and Bobbie’s so-called friendship with Larry.

Friends do not fuck their friend’s wife. Friends do not fall in love with…

Bobbie admits, as she sits on the edge of Joanne and Larry’s empty bed, that this thing with Joanne is different. She’s not like any boyfriend she had before - or really, a _girlfriend_ either - she’s not someone Bobbie just kept around for the occasion. And the sex they have has been more than just _sex_ she thinks since the beginning. And it’s the worst thing she’s probably ever done, and, definitively, the best.

It can be frightening, sure - but only when Bobbie is out of it, only when Bobbie is sitting by herself on Larry’s side of the bed, clothed, sober, alone. The thing was, however, that when she’s between Jo’s legs it’s like the thought urges her on, infuses every movement with such - unparalleled - _something_. Bobbie drops her head in her hands just as the shower’s hiss ceases.

If Larry _ever_ found out……It would be some sort of sick relief.

But it’s not like Bobbie can look up while fully tugging at Joanne’s nipples with her teeth and say, “Hey, how about we tell Larry that we’re having an affair? In his house? With his wife?” It’s not like she even really _wants_ that. So she doesn’t say anything.

There’s movement behind the bathroom door and then she can hear Joanne’s low voice filtering through; she’s humming. Something visceral and archaic within Bobbie rears its intangible head and whispers, _She’s naked_. Bobbie blushes hard and rubs her eyes in defeat. To her miserable joy, she’s just as powerless against this certain strain of intrusive thoughts.

Now Joanne opens the bathroom door, effectively saving Bobby’s two brain cells the trouble of conjuring up every facet of her body; and besides, the real thing does not disappoint. Ever. Bobbie lifts her head just enough, just barely enough to peek through her fingers as Joanne leaves the bathroom and pauses mid step. Her towel looks fluffy, and it’s pleasingly short, and despite all it struggles to contain her tits and ass. Her well-defined legs are still dripping wet. Her hair is pulled to one side and her head is slightly tilted that way as well. She smiles tightly but does not comment on finding Bobbie seated in what she realizes is very defeated posture. Bobbie can’t bring herself to straighten up, though.

“Hello, baby. Is it 2 already?” Joanne asks. Bobbie almost sighs at the sound. Her heart leaps to her throat and starts hammering away like it's hanging up an oil portrait of Jo in her bath towel.

Bobbie pulls one hand away to check her watch. “2:26, now.”

“Oh. I was in the shower.” She says as a matter of fact. Bobbie’s eyes rake down her figure, and when she trails back up to her face Jo’s cheeks are slightly pinker. Nevertheless Joanne’s stride is confident and unaffected as she makes her way through the bedroom, while slowly accumulating articles of dress.

She doesn’t get dressed, though.

“I saw Jenny today. We had brunch at _Dominic’s_ .” _Dominic’s_ is Joanne’s favorite restaurant. She says it’s name like a reverent prayer.

Bobbie perks. Since all this began, with Joanne, she’s reluctant to admit that her other friends have received some modicum of neglect. So it’s nice to hear something about someone, even if it was off a grapevine. She makes a mental note to visit Jenny. Maybe she can start weekly Jenny visits. Minus the sex, and disembowelment of hard-earned marriages.

“She was egregiously pawning off her tickets to some french opera onto us. I had to flat out tell her to fuck off. Otherwise Larry would have snatched them up and - and I’d have to _sit_ through another God-awful show.” Joanne finishes with a deep growl, her tone unmistakably clipped, as if it were the worst thing imaginable. “It was completely unacceptable of her to try that. Shouldn’t she know how distraught the very idea makes me? As a _friend_?”

As an after-thought, she adds, “And don’t even get me started on the entirely idiotic premise of _brunch_.”

Bobbie grins despite herself, and flops back onto the bed. Like an imprint of some sort, the sight of Joanne’s gleaming eyes stays fresh in her mind. When she mentions that particular sentiment it never fails to surprise Bobbie, however. Classic Archetype of Lover and Curator of The Arts doesn’t remotely match the cynical bitch standing in the room, well-loved - like, at all, but maybe it’s the very calibrated drama of Jo’s wardrobe, or perhaps the romanticism she works tirelessly to keep secret that tips the scales.

More than anything else, Bobbie thinks she’s like Pistachio, her mother’s bitter Yorkie-Terrier.

“Shoot! There goes your Christmas present: mezzanine tickets to the _Lion King_ , and _Dunch_.” She says seriously. A bitter bark is her reply. She snorts.

After indignantly informing her she’d rather cut off Jenny’s head than do _Dunch_ , Joanne continues her tangent on people who try to give away bad tickets to boring shows. Bobbie is happy to listen. More than.

They’re in no rush today, she guesses. Maybe Larry won’t be home until well after dinner, will stay after hours to finalize some drafts, maybe. It seems for now there isn’t much more to do than watch light from the window phase across the ceiling and pay close attention to the small mannerisms in Jo’s tone of voice, thinking of the subtle way it's become familiar. Or like meth. Bobbie takes pause to relish in the moment, because it really is a gift, to feel so content to hear Joanne’s voice and be in her presence after a long day of over-analyzing every little thing about this. Peace befalls. Her thoughts lull. In the faint distant bells ring. She relaxes into the duvet, stretches and curls her toes as if there’s warm sand.

A weight settles on top of her. Her hands jump to secure the hips that are snug as a bug on her lap. She pulls herself up far enough to look into Jo’s dark eyes, to see that mischievous grin on her face, “ _Oh_ ,” In her periphery she sees a vision of a creamy, naked thigh.

Joanne bites her lip. Bobbie hopes she doesn’t look the way she imagines she must look.

“You’ve been thinking an awful lot, lately,” Joanne says, with rare softness. She cups Bobbie’s face in both hands.

Her hands warm her all the way to her brain. Her nails are neatly trimmed. Bobbie turns to mush.

“What’s on your mind?”

Leaning forward Joanne lays a kiss on the mouth that Bobbie has offered without preamble. It’s quick, but feels like a jolt. Frustratingly chaste. And suddenly the amount of days she’s gone without her, this, all of it, drops on her like a ton of bricks. And she can’t breathe.

Joanne evidently notices and thinks it’s because she’s crushing her, and her game attempt at removing herself is quickly nipped in the bud. The hands at her hips continue to squeeze and pat, and smooth over her, even after she’s gone still again.

It’s been a week. A handful of hours like a series of tiny islands of paradise between enormous bodies of unforgiving water, by six days of virtually no contact. And Bobbie hadn’t even realized the _toll_ of that until precisely this second. It’s really with this in mind that she admits,

“I’ve been thinking about… Larry.”

Joanne quirks an playful eyebrow, but Bobbie feels her go as stiff as a corpse under her palm.

 

* * *

 

“ _Stop. Oh, stop,_ ” She whispers, and weakly pushes away from the mouth. Her back falls against the stall door when Bobbie’s arms slowly remove themselves from around her waist like it’s suddenly become the hardest thing to do, ever. OK. She’s got to stop panting before anything else. Joanne closes her eyes to block out the misunderstanding on Bobbie’s face.

She’s come to trust her own brain to make terrible decisions. On whims. On momentary fantasy. She does not, however, trust her brain to think straight while Bobbie is looking at her like she’s just poured cold water on top of both of them.

Showing remarkable sense of mind, Bobbie utters softly, “Oh… Sure. I didn’t hurt you, did I?” She chuckles, puffs against her flushed skin. Joanne opens her eyes, overpowered by the uncertainty that’s colored her voice.

“Nuh-no…I’m fine, it’s just…” _Larry_. She hates that she can’t say it.

God, what has she done?

She moans quietly between uncaught breathes, though this time it’s not sexy; this time her hoarse voice is ripe with regret. And Bobbie just keeps _staring_ at her; if she’s waiting for some kind of explanation, Joanne can’t blame her, but she is lacking, as usual. Joanne clasps a hand over her eyes and hits her brow bone with a heavy ring.

She can feel Bobbie starting to stiffen beside her. Joanne wants to turn around and cry in the corner. Instead, she rallies herself; pulls her shirt down over her bra, bites her lip and snatches her coat from the floor. “We –” She starts, firmly, but realizes she doesn’t know what to say next. Bobbie is staring hopefully. Maybe, ‘thanks for the fuck but I’ve recently bought stock market shares with my fourth husband, so it’s quite serious.’

Or maybe, ‘You’re an incredible person and I’m sorry I fucked it up,’ yeah. Much more on the nose.

She wobbles when she steps forward, put briefly back in Bobbie’s arms. She’s got to get out of here, before she can no longer resist the need to stay and have her entire world collapse for a handful of seconds more of Bobbie’s… Bobbie’s anything. _Besides_ , she wants to say, _Larry_ is waiting for her. He’s expecting… Her legs feel like they’ve been swapped with cotton candy. She touches her face for the briefest of seconds, regretting it the moment she does, and wordlessly lets herself out of the suddenly cramped stall. The door swings shut behind her and Bobbie hears her sigh, like she can finally breathe now that she’s no longer pressed flush against the younger woman, before the door to the bathroom is opened and closed.

Joanne meets Larry at the front of the club. The city is still pulsing with nightlight, up and down the sidewalk. She feels like she’s been punched in the gut. She saddles to his side, her mussed hair hidden by a warm fleecy hat. He doesn’t notice the slightly smeary quality of her lipstick. She had tried to fix it on the walk to the exits.

Her lip wobbles the moment he, in all intents and purposes, lovingly wraps an arm around her to throw off some of the September cold. But it only serves to splash her in the face.

Luckily she masters her expression before the cab pulls up to the curb.

_“…I drank, but you really put it away tonight, huh?…”_

She remembers, against her will, the look of disappointment on Bobbie’s face. Her throat starts to close again. It feels worse than the guilt swarming inside her as she slides into a cab and Larry immediately follows her. Joanne glances underneath her lashes at Larry. He’s sleepy, relaxing against the tough cushions of this retro taxi – so retro, in fact, that it probably predates Bobbie.

Larry turns his head slightly toward her and smiles innocently; Joanne instantly looks away. Glues her dark eyes to the window as if there is something crucial out there. She feels nauseated.

They don’t speak the entire way to bed. She hopes he doesn’t sense the heaviness of the silence – or, since that is baffling, hopeful wishing, she prays that he doesn’t comment. And she wakes up at noon with the world’s worst hangover, turns to face Larry despite the pillows in obstruction… His side of the bed is empty, and a skirting hand tells her it’s been empty for hours… _Shocking_.

Not even a morning cigarette is going to save her from this one.

Maybe a morning cocktail stands more of a chance.

 

* * *

 

They talk about Larry, and Joanne’s marriage, and their affair as objectively as they can. But often Bobbie blurts out her unconditional, contradicting, powerful emotions. And instead of pushing them aside, which Bobbie realizes is something she’s feared this entire time, Joanne reworks every ending they come to until there is space for them.

They even talk about what’s happened between them; they talk about the first night they kissed and Joanne had fled; they talked about that day, two _miserable_ months later, when they agreed on some kind of arrangement to see each other; Bobbie finally admits she lies awake most nights worrying about the future. Bobbie glimpses Joanne’s profound well of fear. They discover each other’s infallible loyalty.

Bobbie doesn’t mention anything about being honest with Larry.

Nearly an hour and a half later, Joanne is no longer on her lap - they’ve moved to the middle of the bed and are seconds away from embracing each other out of selfish need and with varying levels of denial.

The entire time, of course, Joanne is in a towel.

Her breath splashes Jo’s throat, “What if something happens? And ruins everything?” Joanne’s fingers run through her hair again, and those perfectly manicured nails lightly scratch her scalp; Bobbie heaves a shuddering breath and slides her arms around Joanne’s waist. They come closer.

“Something might.” Joanne says after a long silence. There’s a faint choke in her voice, like she’s facing the wind during a blizzard. “Then… We’ll see. We will deal with whatever comes.” Then she noses Bobbie’s hairline, and hums, satisfied by her own answer. “What do you think Larry will do, if he - as you put it - bursts in on our frenzied love-making?”

Bobbie can’t help laughing, but it’s taken up with anxiety. After the last few minutes having been the tensest of her life, she’s glad beyond measure that some things are finally out there and that part is over. This relief is one she knows quite well. 

“I don’t know… It would be awful, though. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself after that.” Saying nothing of being able to live very well thank you at this moment. “It’s not that I feel bad about doing this, you and uh, me,” Bobbie’s cheeks are scalded, but she perseveres, “I’d just hate to hurt him, you know?” She blinks, as three months of worry stem to a head, falling out of her mouth with aching simplicity. She doesn’t want to hurt anyone. But she would only hurt herself if she didn’t take the risk.

And it’s not like she’s taking the risk alone.

“If I’m being completely honest, I don’t think I could handle his tears. If Larry cries, which is a very possible outcome, I’ll jump out the window.” Joanne smirks at Bobbie’s scandalized laughter.

She closes her eyes and drops her head on Joanne’s shoulders, while her hands continue to smooth down her frayed ends. A whole new smile erupts, as she basks in Joanne’s particular fondness for her red hair.

“So,” Bobbie opens her eyes, “You _do_ still want to do this,” Joanne whispers. “right?”

In a way, it’s like a declaration of love.

Bobbie pulls herself up until they’re looking each other, nose to nose. “Yes.” She says, firmly. And takes hold of her life, again, for Joanne.

 

* * *

 

Joanne eventually manages to get a hold of a thing or two, as well. And their kiss is interrupted by a broken little moan, and she is unsure whether it was her own or Bobbie’s. “Awh, you’ve been waiting a long time, haven't you?” She purrs, incredibly breathless, having watched Bobbie begin to fall apart the moment she slid a hand up her rib-cage and cupped her over her blouse. “Very patient…”

Bobbie agrees, sotto voce, and they kiss again. Joanne approaches with an almost teasing lightness, practically pulling back as Bobbie crushes her lips to hers with much more gusto. She squeezes her breast as a reprimand then nearly laughs - her younger counterpart seems to enjoy it too much for it to be punishment. Oh well. _C’est la vie._ She can feel her hard nipple against the flat of her palm. The sensation is wonderful, and jolting.

“How long has it been? A week?–”

“–A week,” Bobbie clarifies eagerly. Joanne hums again and the sound is like the beginning note of a beautiful sonata. There must be a percussionist in her chest, Bobbie reasons, and leans forward to bite Joanne’s cutting collarbone. Joanne’s breathe hitches. Bobbie’s hands tremble as she slides them underneath a towel, and between her thighs. Joanne’s gasps fill her brain with fuzzy static. She pinches Bobbie’s nipple through the layers of clothing. The first brush of cool fingertips against her throws away all reasonable thought, and she tilts her hips and squirms, trying to gain a second heartbeat inside of her. Bobbie slides two fingers from clit to slit, gathering moisture, and breathes heavily as Jo stops breathing all together; watching intently as Joanne reaches behind herself and leans back. She can tell (it’s like reading a book): Joanne desires nothing more than to impale herself on Bobbie’s fingers. A shiver shoots up her spine.

“Can I -?” Bobbie asks, and runs her other hand up Jo's side and skims the loose knot holding together a very offensive towel. Her heart thumps on, painfully. Joanne nods, wordless. She appears to be trying with everything she has to stay cognitive and not faint in the middle of what hasn’t happened in a _week_.

She wastes no time ripping it away and all of a sudden Joanne is naked, and her smooth, supple body almost blinds her. Bobbie yanks the towel from around her and chucks it to the side; it slips off the edge of the bed, forgotten. Bobbie’s hand flies back to the hot moisture at the apex of her thighs. Joanne’s lips brush across her throat. She feels Joanne shudder, and hears her squeak. “Oh god… Jo, you feel so good,”

“Keep touching me,” She begs, and unravels further as Bobbie pushes her down into the mattress and reverently brushes the hair from her eyes. Her wild, fuck-me eyes.

Bobbie gulps, and leans down for a deep kiss.

One of her hands wander from her breast to her ass. Bobbie presses flush against her, and hooks Joanne’s leg over her hips. She squeezes her bum, rocks her fully-clothed hips down into hers. Her denim jeans rub against her, and Joanne feels her own wetness soaking Bobbie’s firm, coaxing thigh as her body bucks and writhes with little control. It’s a rough, delicious sensation, and she gallantly attempts to undo some of Bobbie’s buttons and zippers but can barely manage a coherent thought much less… Falling out of the kiss, Joanne cries out helplessly, the pressure, _there_ , is too much, and when Bobbie licks her nipple and draws it between her teeth she comes, hard.

Bobbie holds her as she rides out her orgasm, pressing her lips against her sweaty brow as she regains the ability to breathe. She’s flushed, quivering in the aftermath, from her pink cheeks to her heaving chest. Bobbie is so turned on she thinks she might come if Joanne moves even an inch.

“ _God…_ ” Bobbie croaks, almost involuntarily, as she leans up to give her more space to suck in air. She’s hypnotized by the rapid rise and fall of her chest, and by the sexy look on her face: she looks like she’s in bliss. “ _Oh_ ,”

Bobbie glances up at her face and feels her cunt throb - she’s focused again, and seconds away from devouring her. Bobbie swallows hard.

“Take all that off.” Joanne demands, imperiously; looking down at her, Bobbie is amazed by her authoritative presence, despite being splayed out on the bed, arms limply resting beside her head, freshly fucked. Bobbie sits up between her spread thighs faster than necessary and fumbles with clumsy fingers on her blouse. Joanne makes no move to help - she’s quietly observing from underneath her, their positions swapped from earlier today. Her eyes burn her, and Bobbie knows her panties are ruined.

When Bobbie is half way down the line of small buttons she hears a contented sigh from below and her fingers freeze mid-air. Joanne sighs again, only this time it is unmistakably breathless; then she squeaks and Bobbie feels her shifting her legs wider.

Under her, Joanne has trailed her fingertips down her body and is slowly sinking two long fingers into her slippery cunt. Her eyes close when Bobbie looks down, knowing she’s watching her, and she bucks into her own hand with a quiet gasp. Bobbie flicks her gaze up to her face, watches her throat work as she swallows. Bobbie almost topples over when she mutters, “ _Can’t wait_ ,”

Bobbie then yanks her blouse open and mumbles a hasty apology when buttons scatter over the bed and one bounces off Jo’s chest. She shucks off her jeans and scrambles to kick them off from around her ankles and sinks between Joanne’s legs. The moment her tongue brushes alongside Jo’s fingers, still shakily pumping in and out of Bobbie’s favorite thing in the entire world, Joanne moans raggedly and arches into her mouth. She pulls her hand out and immediately runs them through Bobbie’s hair. She hears Bobbie call her ‘ _darling_ ,’ against her slick sex, and lights flash behind her eyelids. She swears colorfully. Bobbie’s hands wrap around her hips in an attempt to control her writhing, and Jo scrabbles with her other hand until she’s gripping one of Bobbie’s in a death grip.

Joanne hisses and yanks her hair, croaks an apology when Bobbie winces. Bobbie’s sucking on her clit like a woman starved, and does not stop even when Jo tugs again. “ _Ooh_ , _fuck_ , _Bobbie_ , you’re so - beautiful, I love you there, k-kissing - oh _god_!” Joanne tosses her head back and her hips jump, abruptly speechless, and she can feel her second orgasm flying down on her, crushing her; she writhes helplessly, Bobbie’s licks sending ripples of hot pleasure to fire her nerve-endings, then she tilts her chin and pushes her tongue inside. Joanne goes rigid, clenching and pulsing almost painfully around Bobbie’s tongue, her body undulating in intense waves; Bobbie’s chin and cheeks are soaked as she comes against her imploring mouth.

Bobbie groans, her tongue swiping out once more, sliding through her folds, and Joanne twitches and moans. Bobbie kisses the inside of her thigh, gently, trying not to add to the sensory overload she’s sure Joanne is wafting through, but unable to stop herself from kissing such a perfect limb. She nuzzles briefly, and sits up to wipe her face with her sleeve. Her shirt is hanging open, decimated. Joanne stares at her bra while she comes down, breathing deeply.

“Like it?” Bobbie asks, mumbles really, her jaw is a little sore, but she sees Joanne’s pulse leap in her throat.

“ _Off_ ,” Joanne pants and weakly gestures. She sounds less formidable this time. Bobbie smirks. Joanne shivers, her eyes closing briefly. “Ooh, you’re going to kill me.” She says flatly.

“Just little deaths. That’s all.” Bobbie reassures her, and slides out of her blouse, and falls back on top of Jo. They entwine as soon as flesh meets flesh, and Joanne is so warm it immediately drowns her. Arms wrap around Bobbie’s neck, winding through her auburn hair, and Joanne fucks her with her mouth until she’s squirming.

Jo makes small noises in the back of her throat that drives Bobbie crazy. Nails drag up her ass, across her spine, and then she feels her bra clasps unhook. She leans up long enough to toss it to the side before diving back in.

“I want to make you come,” Joanne says quietly, her breath puffing against Bobbie’s throat. Bobbie nods, and yet seals her mouth over Jo’s taut nipple. Joanne almost rolls her eyes, but it feels too good. She goes momentarily blind, and maybe deaf too.

Jo glides her hands across Bobbie’s skin, touching as many sensitive places as she can think of, then threads her fingers through her soft hair. She sighs, pants, and it sounds positively choked. She feels a hint of teeth on her breast and freezes.

When Bobbie refuses to bite her she hisses. Bobbie lifts her head and laughs.

She loves the sound, she loves Bobbie’s laughter, she loves feeling her laugh while she’s pressing her into the bed. Joanne pulls her head down and ravages her mouth. Their tongues mingle as soon as Jo parts her lips further, and Bobbie slants her head to the side to deepen the kiss. Joanne wants her, and she has her, and the thought very nearly distracts her. 

They have to stop, or someone is really going to die - from asphyxiation. Joanne opens her eyes and looks up at her lover with a deep affection, and it nearly stops Bobbie’s heart. She looks so gorgeous, her mouth is red and swollen, her skin flushed. Bobbie stares, achingly lost. “Wow, Jo…” Bobbie murmurs quietly.

Bobbie’s mouth sags open; Joanne has wedged her thigh between them, smiling innocently; her arms hold her prisoner, though Bobbie can’t imagine ever wanting to leave their sticky heaven - and as she lifts her knee to press with delicious pressure just where Bobbie desperately needs it, she slips her tongue into Bobbie’s ear and cups her ass over her panties. Joanne whispers, sending tingles all the way down her spine, “ _Come_ , baby,” Bobbie squeaks, and grinds her way through an self-shattering orgasm.

Later, in the afterglow, Bobbie reaches for Joanne’s lit cigarette as they cuddle in the fucked up pile of sticky sheets and pillows and blankets that is now Joanne and Larry’s marital bed.

* * *

 


	3. Epilogue

It’s six months later, and enough it is no longer. When she tells Larry, finally, she hates herself more than she ever has. He looks horrified, and just stares at Joanne; Joanne has her head down. His eyes begin to well, betrayal swims, and as he asks, “How long?” two fat tears plummet down his stricken cheeks. Joanne glances at her, tears her eyes away from the table cloth to burn her with a momentary thought - Bobbie knows exactly what’s she’s thinking, and wonders if this has always been some subconscious, insensitive bet between them.

 _“How long?”_ Bobbie knows how long, to the day. But she at least has enough compassion to think on her next words, to pretend to need a moment before she answers. Joanne is unresponsive throughout the rest of the evening - it’s the worst dinner she’s ever had with Larry and Joanne, by far.

Joanne follows Bobbie to her apartment afterward, and stands in the middle of the hall in her coat. She looks too much like a puppy in the rain for Bobbie’s liking. She longs to embrace her, but has to turn and lock the apartment door.

It hits her that, despite having three marriages and three divorces under her belt, soon to be four, Joanne has never been the one to leave. Much less leave for _love_.

Larry had politely asked that Joanne think about not returning to their townhouse that night, nor for the next few days until he can set up some time when she may come, pack her clothes and other possessions; he doesn’t care what she takes, as long as she does so when he is not home. Bobbie doesn’t even want to think about the silent look Larry had given her, in place of any instructions.

Bobbie carefully helps her out of her coat. Joanne jumps, then slides out of her sleeves and turns to face her. She has on a face like stone. Bobbie fidgets under her gaze, feeling like a stranger in her own body. And no duh, considering… Suddenly Jo takes a step forward - her coat falls out of Bobbie’s slack fingers - and she carefully embraces Bobbie, and kisses her as if she’s kissing a hard-won medal. Her hands tangle in her auburn hair, and Bobbie hears herself sigh against her lips when Joanne’s warm tongue caresses her mouth.

 

The End.

* * *

 


End file.
